


Do You Read Me? (Extended Multi-Chapter Edition)

by everyl1ttleth1ng



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: A One-Shot That Grew Into A Multi-Chapter, Author/Critic AU, F/M, Literature Festival AU, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-11-07 12:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17960591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyl1ttleth1ng/pseuds/everyl1ttleth1ng
Summary: Leo Fitz, much-loved book critic, and Jemma Simmons, Man Booker Prize nominee, meet on the tube on the way to the London Literature Festival.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [recoveringrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/gifts).



The London Literature Festival was, to Fitz’s mind, the junket to beat all junkets, though one would be at pains to get him to acknowledge that the gig came to him year after year as a natural reward for his work and talent. Leo Fitz, known to the wide world as _Lit Lover_ , was the most popular columnist at _The Scotsman_ and all its many global affiliate news outlets, many of them attracted to the conglomerate on the strength of his columns alone. His readership was varied, articulate and passionate. When polled, newspaper readers worldwide repeatedly cited _Lit Lover_ as the most significant reason by which they justified maintaining their subscriptions to a dying analogue medium in a digital world. To the rare broadsheet optimist, _Lit Lover_ Leo Fitz was the Messiah of print media. Thus when the festival came to London, he would be comfortably accommodated at The Savoy and afforded an extremely generous spending allowance for schmoozing with authors, critics and other literary types. As a bookish boy who’d somehow survived the mean streets of Glasgow, these were heights to which he never dared dreamed he’d attain.

 

As had become her annual custom, his inimitable assistant, Daisy, had perused his wardrobe, declared the entire lot unwearable and taken him shopping down the road from his flat in Edinburgh, selecting a predictable palette of purples and blues.

 

“Weren’t they all purple and blue last year, Daisy?” Fitz grumbled at his reflection as she threw several more ties over the partition for him to try on. “Surely I could just wear the millions of shirts of this ilk that I already own?”

 

“Perhaps that could be possible if you would only remember to change before you collapse on the lounge with a novel and a curry every single night,” Daisy shot back and he could see the huff on her face even through the solid change room door. “Lilac is a classic shade, especially on you, but lilac with a hint of tandoori?”

 

“Not so much, I suppose.”

 

“I’m glad you’re seeing sense.”

 

“In my defence, it is a little tricky to eat while holding a book.”

 

“I’m sure. And yet you’ll insist that there’s no other reasonable way to spend an evening.”

 

“There isn’t!”

 

“Curry issues aside, are you noticing all the amazing seasonal details in these shirts? What about all the checks and spots and stripes?”

 

“Completely passed me by,” Fitz laughed, holding one out in the light to see if it looked any different to your garden-variety shirt.

 

“For someone so attuned to the subtleties of language, you’d think I could get you to appreciate the intricacies of a nice suit.”

 

“Daisy, before you came along, I used to get about at these dos in one of those tuxedo t-shirts, remember? At least the black hid the curry stains. Besides, as I repeatedly contend, nobody cares two hoots what I wear.”

 

“No wonder they’ve never printed a photograph of you next to your column!” Daisy retorted. “But remember your covert assignment, Fitz. Women appreciate a well-dressed man and you have somehow got to find and secure Jemma Simmons for Edinburgh next year.”

 

“I doubt she’ll care what I wear either, Daisy! Jemma Simmons has clearly got weightier priorities. How else could she keep turning out such perfect prose?”

 

“Women are good multi-taskers, Fitz. Ten pounds says she’s a nubile young prodigy with above average fashion sense on top of being a best selling author.”

 

Fitz finally emerged from the change room scoffing beneath the heap of high-end fashion in his arms. “I’ll see your ten pounds and raise you twenty. I say she’ll turn out to be a mid-fifties, chain-smoking, comfortably overweight _Jammie Dodger_ addict who is just as curry-stained and wrinkled as I…”

 

“…as you _used_ to be before I came along…” Daisy muttered.

 

“…and thoroughly disinterested in any of this superficial rubbish you keep going on about.”

 

“Alright,” Daisy sighed as she tried to divest him of his mountain of menswear. “You do actually look pretty good in all this despite your best efforts not to. Hand over your credit card then.”

 

Fitz grinned, fishing in his back pocket. “What if I say no?”

 

“I’d remind you that your eccentric insistence on hand-writing all your columns and refusing to deal with the internet requires my dedicated involvement if you’re to ever get anything published in this day and age. Say goodbye to your room at The Savoy! Say goodbye to those long boozy literature festival lunches with Hunter and whichever Pulitzer Prize winner you two manage to strike up a bond with!”

 

“Alright, alright. But how good can this whole internet business really be if you can’t even find me a photo of Jemma Simmons? How am I supposed to track her down at the festival when I don’t even know what she looks like?”

 

“It’s that model with the same name,” Daisy shot back defensively. “She’s gorgeous and the internet is mostly the tool of desperate, lonely men so by virtue of the algorithms at play, every search only ever turns up the model. I’ll show you _her_ photo if you like. I think you’d appreciate the look of her.”

 

“What good is a _model_ to me, Daisy?” he scoffed, spitting out the word like a nasty bug that had just flown into his mouth. “All I need is ten minutes tête-à-tête with this veritable goddess of fiction in which, yes, I will undoubtedly fawn embarrassingly, but perchance, if the universe smiles upon me, I will also manage to woo to our very own Edinburgh Writer’s Festival.”

 

“Shut up, Fitz. I hate it when you get all Shakespearean. It’s not like you haven’t highlighted her _Meet The Author_ session on every draft of the program that’s made it into the office. You’ll work out what she looks like pretty quickly once you’re sitting in front of her.”

 

“I’d better.” Fitz handed over his credit card with an ominous look. “Otherwise May will kill us both.”


	2. Chapter 2

Within the month, Fitz found himself strolling the opulent lobby of The Savoy, taking in the luxurious furnishings and the view from the glorious picture windows. It was pretty far from his usual existence, but it was always lovely to pretend for the ten days of the festival that he lived like this all the time.

 

He liked messing about in hotel rooms, trying out the tea and coffee making facilities, testing all the little tubes and bottles in the bathroom, checking all the channels on the tv and ordering something extravagant from room service just to start the festival off on the right foot.

 

Wandering past the front desk he noticed Jeff Mace was on duty as the concierge. The two of them had struck up a friendship a few years prior, bonding over a shared tragic shackling to the utterly useless Heart of Midlothian in the Scottish Premier League.

 

“Fitz!” he called across the lobby. “Good to see you back! I’d noticed that we were expecting you again for the festival.”

 

Fitz wandered over to catch up with him and, after some mutual commiseration and pining for an unlikely return to glory for Heart of Midlothian, tried to arrange a time to catch up for a beer with Hunter too, if Fitz could get hold of him.

 

“Oh, and Fitz, don’t spread it around too much…” Jeff leaned in conspiratorially, “But we’ve held off on booking out our restaurants for the duration of the festival because we know guests like you are always trying to arrange last minute catch-ups and interviews and the like. You still have my number, don’t you?”

 

Fitz quickly checked his phone. “Yep, it’s in here.”

 

“Well, give me a call if you should need a table at any of our places. I’m almost sure I can make it happen for you, even at fairly late notice, especially at Kaspar’s which, let me tell you, is _excellent_ at the moment.”

 

“Alright, mate. Thanks for that, I’ll keep it in mind,” said Fitz, clapping him on the shoulder.

 

Jeff leaned in closer. “And one more thing worth mentioning,” he whispered. “Rosalind Price is here.”

 

Fitz grinned. Rosalind Price wrote the _Londoner's Diary_ , the notorious gossip column in the _London Evening Standard_. Charles Wintour, the _Standard_ editor in the sixties, once declared: "To go to a decent London dinner party without having read the Diary would be to go out unprepared for proper conversation." Of recent years one could just as easily have said the same about going to a decent London Literature Festival. “Staying here at The Savoy?” he asked.

 

“I took her to my suite herself. Settled her many minions in too.”

 

“Was their luggage all full of high-tech spy equipment and virgins to sacrifice?”

 

Jeff shrugged, grinning. “One would assume.”

 

The hallways bustled with new and recognisable arrivals as authors, critics, journalists and their batteries of representatives from upmarket publishing houses shuffled about like bees packed in a hive.

 

Fitz looked around and let out a low whistle. “She’s going to be in her element.”

 

Jeff nodded emphatically, eyebrows high. “Keep your nose clean, eh? Anyway, I’d better get back to it. Have a great festival!”

 

…

 

On Day One, Fitz’s head popped off the pillow just as the morning sun shot the London sky pink and gold. In reality the London sun continued to nurse its hangover somewhere deep beneath the perennial London smog but as far as Fitz was concerned, the morning had never been more promising, even if he was awake a good three hours earlier than usual.

 

He’d slept his best sleep of the year, sunk deep in the luxurious bedding provided by The Savoy, and ahead of him lay the buffet breakfast dreams were made of. Then it was a publishers’ industry brunch in Covent Garden with a lot of hilarious people the company of whom he vastly enjoyed and just a quick tube trip back to Southbank for the event he’d been keenly anticipating all year – finally getting to listen to his literary idol, Jemma Simmons, talking about her work.

 

After that, the festival would really hot up for Fitz. He himself would appear as a guest on the program in a number of places and after his incredibly successful debut hosting a panel last year, he’d been asked to chair no less than three separate sessions. None of that responsibility had dulled his enthusiasm one iota. After reading books (alone in his flat in just his pants if possible), talking about them was his passion and talking about them with the creative genii who sent them out into the world in front of adoring audiences who hung on every word was absolute literary Valhalla.

 

…

 

Jemma Simmons was nervous. After some years enjoying modest success as an author, she'd at last hit the literary big time. Her latest novel, _Maveth_ , despite firmly deserving its place in the sci-fi genre, had been nominated for the Man Booker and her entire body of work was consequently enjoying an enthusiastic revival. The necessary new runs of old titles had made her the darling of her publishing house and, for the first time ever, she'd been granted the rare privilege of having some input into her own cover art.

 

Until now, Jemma had been able to keep her face out of the press. A second, and up until recently, more profitable career as a model had made her wary about having her photograph associated with her books. A relatively unknown author would appear churlish in refusing to be drawn on a topic of such public interest as a novelist with a modeling career but, now that she'd made it, she felt more confident that she could brush off those inevitable boring questions and change the conversation. 

 

A man took the train seat opposite her and immediately pulled out a well-worn copy of one of her earlier titles, _Maybe There Is_. Perhaps puffed up by her recent success, she couldn't help but at least make small talk. Besides, on second glance, her seat-mate was undeniably attractive.

 

"Heading to the literature festival?" she asked pleasantly.

 

"Mmm hmm," murmured the man, not looking up from his reading.

 

"Big Jemma Simmons fan then?" She couldn't quite fathom why she felt she must persist in the face of apparent disinterest.

 

He raised his eyes at the sound of her name. "She's my all-time favourite author," he said, with a face-transforming grin. "You?"

 

Jemma smiled. "Yeah, I'm pretty invested in her work."

 

"Have you read _Maveth_ yet?" he asked curiously, then, as an after-thought, stuck out his hand. "I'm Fitz, by the way."

 

She shook his hand, smiling warmly. "Jessica," she lied.

 

"Ha! Like the main character!"

 

"Mmm, and yes, of course I've read it. What did you think of it?"

 

He put his hand sincerely over his heart. "I loved it. I have never been more thrilled to find a book nominated for anything. _Maveth_ is so deserving!"

 

"Critics seem to like it but not all the fans are impressed," she observed. 

 

"It's Len Fallon," he sighed. "No one seems to get him."

 

"And you get him?" she asked, both amused and intrigued to hear his response.

 

"I think so," he said earnestly. "I mean, I think on a basic level, lots of readers found him a frustrating character. Was he weak or just desperate? People can't seem to understand how he forgave Jessica, how he settled into a life with her after all that had happened to her on Maveth."

 

"But you don't feel that?" she asked.

 

Fitz shook his head. "I think Simmons made his character truly good, and maybe we've been ruined for good guys these days but, to me, Fallon is the real hero. He may not be the guy who you'd pick as the one to save the day, but, through sheer grit and determination, he's gonna damn well get there somehow.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “ _Especially_ where Jessica’s involved."

 

Jemma found herself warmed by this stranger's assessment of her favourite creation to date.

 

"So do you think he settled then? For Jessica?" she asked tentatively, almost frightened to hear it all come crashing down.

 

“No!” he replied vehemently. "It’s when Fallon says to her, remember, when she’s back but there’s still that unanswered question about Wes? He says 'I’m furious, but not at you! ‘Cause we’re cursed. The bloody cosmos wants us to be apart.'"

 

Jemma couldn't help but smile at the thrill of a reader perfectly quoting back dialogue she had slaved over.

 

"That's when we know that he's not settling. He just _loves_ her, he always has, and he _knows_ her. He knows she would never just give up on him. He knows that only despair could break her spirit like that." Fitz rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. "Sorry, I got a bit carried away there, didn't I?"

 

Jemma eyed him suspiciously. "Fitz, do you live with your mum?"

 

"Err, no," he said blinking. "I have a flat on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh."

 

“A wife? A girlfriend?”

 

“No.”

 

"How come you're on the tube heading to a writer's festival in the middle of the week? Don't you have to work?"

 

He grinned. "This _is_ work for me. And this isn't just _any_ writer's festival! This is the London Literature Festival! The biggest names in the business are going to be here!"

 

"You're an author?" she quizzed.

 

Fitz shook his head. "A critic. Sort of. I write a column for _The Scotsman_."

 

Jemma's jaw dropped as the pieces came together. "You're Leo Fitz! You're _Lit Lover_!"

 

He grinned and scratched at the back of his neck again.

 

"I love your columns!"

 

"You do?"

 

She nodded vigorously.

 

“Nice of you to say. Hey, Jemma Simmons’ _Meet the Author_ session doesn't start for an hour or so," he added, going slightly pink. "I don't suppose you'd want to maybe get a drink, err, with me?" 

 

The hopefulness in his very blue eyes was irresistible but she’d already decided on her plan, all the way back at his appreciation of Len Fallon.

 

"Tell you what," she said, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen. "I have to be somewhere just now but could I give you my number and maybe you could call me after the Simmons thing? I'd love someone to debrief with."

 

Fitz nodded, seeming pleased. "I'm desperate to lure her to the Edinburgh International Book Festival," he confessed. "The organiser's placed all her faith in me to get her there. I've brought all seven of Simmons’ titles with me. In fact,” he said, leaning forward with the air of a confession, “I’ve brought brand new copies of all seven of her titles just for the perfect cover art.”

 

Jemma smiled indulgently.

 

“Hopefully her signing all of them will give me time to ask her. Do you think she's even heard of my column?"

 

Jemma nodded. "I'm _sure_ she has. Authors like her love critics like you. Your enthusiasm for the works you write about practically leaps off the page and throttles you! You kick-start people’s careers! The column that launched a thousand best sellers!"

 

“As long as they’re deserving.” He chuckled. "Actually, I think you just gave me my favourite review."

 

Jemma got to her feet as the train trundled into the station. "Nice to be able to return the favour," she murmured. 

 

Looking down at him as he gazed up at her from his seat, Jemma found herself overwhelmed by her need for this not to be the last moment she spent with Leo Fitz.

 

"You will call me, won't you, Fitz?" she said. "After the _Meet the Author_?"

 

Fitz patted his breast pocket where she had watched him tuck her number.

 

"Trust me," he breathed, eyes wide. "This is the first time a stunningly beautiful woman has ever given me her number. _And_ we can talk about books. You'll be hearing from me."

 

"Good," she replied, and after leaning down to press a quick kiss to his stubbly cheek, and enjoying his gasp of surprise, she hurried out of the carriage.

 

...

 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up,” Fitz muttered into the phone, hopping from one foot to the other and trying not to look as utterly discombobulated as he felt.

 

“Fitz?” Daisy’s tone was more alarmed than surprised. “Do NOT tell me you’re drunk and lost somewhere in Covent Garden with only half-an-hour to spare before Jemma Simmons! I do have _some_ underlings at my beck-and-call in London but there have been about fourteen separate festival commencement champagne brunches this morning and they’ll all be three sheets to the wind.”

 

“No, Daisy, it’s nothing like that,” he said hurriedly. “I just… it’s just that… Oh, bloody hell. Daisy, I met a girl.”

 

“You WHAT!?” The volume and pitch of her excited shriek forced Fitz to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment.

 

“She was on the tube and she saw me re-reading _Maybe There Is_ and we talked about Jemma Simmons. She just gave me her number and everything.” Seized by panic he jerked his hand to his chest and patted his breast pocket to make sure it was still there. Relieved, he continued. “I’m supposed to call her after the Simmons thing. All year I’ve been waiting for this and now, Daisy, all of a sudden I can’t wait for it to be over! What on earth has gotten into me?”

 

“This is the _best_ ,” Daisy squealed! “Wait til I tell Trip! He’ll want me to smuggle him to London in my luggage tomorrow so he can meet her too.”

 

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself,” Fitz laughed nervously. “Lining up one date doesn’t guarantee she’ll ever want to meet me again.”

 

“Well, there’s a fine attitude! Way to sabotage yourself before you even have a second conversation.”

 

“You know me, Daisy.”

 

Daisy’s voice was firm on the other end of the line. “I _do_ know you, Fitz. You’re a magnificent human. You’ve never backed yourself and you somehow have no idea how much the entire reading world loves your guts. I’m your PA, I should know. I know how much people adore you and I know how much I adore you so stop being such an idiot and trust that this woman wouldn’t have handed over her number if she didn’t genuinely want to get to know you better.”

 

Fitz grinned into the receiver, feeling his cheeks go a bit pink. “Thanks, Daisy. You're the best.”

 

“That’s why you hired me!”

 

“Well, if you recall, I sort of inherited you when Coulson retir…”

 

“Shut up, Fitz and get yourself to the Simmons thing before May sends out a search party.”

 

“Ok, ok. I’m going”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Mr Jeffery "Unsubtle Exposition" Mace! Soz all. Also, sorry that most of you have already read most of this one!!! Hope you found a few new bits and pieces hidden therein!


	3. Chapter 3

Fitz made it to the _Meet the Author_ session with a little time to spare, desperately trying to resume his calm and professional persona.

 

Melinda May, the terrifying but impressively effective organiser of the Edinburgh International Book Festival motioned to him from the third row of the enormous lecture hall where she was saving him a seat. He shuffled through the buzzing crowd and collapsed into it, rifling through his bag for his notebook.

 

“I have a good feeling about this, May,” he said, straightening in his seat. “Something tells me luck is on my side today. We’re going to get Jemma Simmons if it kills me.”

 

“Oh?” replied Melinda, with a cock of one eyebrow that seemed to function like a key to his brain. “Did you meet a girl or something?”

 

The Killers’ _All These Things That I’ve Done_ suddenly blasted through the sound system just at the break where the song repeats “I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier”, building into a triumphant crescendo.

 

Lance Hunter, his best mate and the lucky tosser who got the plum job of interviewing Fitz’s idol, jogged out onto the stage with the sleeves of his sports jacket rolled up. _Wanker_ , thought Fitz affectionately. One couldn’t help but find Hunter loveable even with his irrepressible _Miami Vice_ affectations.

 

Behind him, to the rapturous applause of the crowd strode… _No_ … Why was _Jessica_ on stage? Fitz felt his mouth wordlessly opening and closing as if it had disconnected itself from the rest of his nervous system.

 

Hunter motioned Jessica into one of the cushy looking armchairs that had been faux-haphazardly placed in the centre of the stage under the spotlights.

 

“Welcome, Man-Booker nominee, Jemma Simmons!” shouted Hunter.

 

For some reason, his new friend (more than that?), Jessica, ducked her head and smiled shyly at the roaring applause.

 

“Now Jemma, before we can get started, you’ve been pleading with me backstage for a chance to get something off your chest.”

 

She nodded. “Thanks, Lance. I have.” She shielded her eyes from the spotlights and looked out into the crowd. “I just have to say something to my favourite reader who I stumbled across on the tube this morning.”

 

The crowd laughed.

 

“Sorry, I lied earlier. My name’s not Jessica but I suppose you’ve established that by now. I’d absolutely love to come to that festival with you, just make sure you still remember to call me. Perhaps we can go to dinner. Somewhere nice, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Fitz whispered back, before he quite realised what he was doing.

 

May eyed him suspiciously. 

 

“Told you, May,” Fitz shrugged, grinning. “Luck is _definitely_ on my side!"

 

…

 

Fitz took out his phone and tried to remember everything Daisy had ever told him about the art of texting. It had all been utter drivel and he made his living from writing so of course he hadn’t paid any attention but he quietly found himself desperately wishing he had.

 

He decided to go with witty and winsome even though he could see that she’d never have a shot at reading it in the moment.

 

_So, Jemma Simmons, is it, after all that? I remain Leo Fitz but I think I can manage to forgive you for duping me on the tube. I imagine you’ve met some very strange characters in your time. Speaking of which, this signing of yours is becoming a bit of a mob scene. I’m worried that if I get in that line and try to bring out your exhaustive bibliography, your lesser fans will tear me limb from limb. Not that you could possibly look at your phone right now to see this but just in case, I’m on your four with a pot of tea to sustain me. If the crowd sufficiently dwindles I’ll try my luck, otherwise perhaps I’ll just have to bring your books to dinner._

 

He read it twice, thrice, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to hit the “Send” button sightless. Ultimately, he had to give up the drama and squint one-eyed to find it. “Carrier pigeons were probably a damn sight more reliable anyway,” he muttered to himself, watching Jemma Simmons earnestly for signs that she might have felt a buzzing in her pocket.

 

Fitz had somehow failed to notice the man-mountain standing behind her until he suddenly leaned forward to interrupt the conversation she was having and held out a phone to her.

 

It was odd watching from Fitz’s vantage point as she accepted it gratefully, almost reverently, apologised to the fan in front of her and eagerly scanned her screen.

 

Within a second her eyes were on him and she was beaming and giving him a little wave.

 

She’d just found him on her four. That reverence, that eagerness as she’d looked at the phone – was that for _him_?

 

The heads of the first few people in line turned to follow her gaze just as he was waving back. They smiled indulgent smiles that implied they knew something was up.

 

Whatever they thought they knew could only have been confirmed by Jemma’s whispered conversation with the enormous man and his subsequent journey across the exhibition hall floor to where Fitz was sitting.

 

Fitz watched him approach with no small amount of trepidation. _Was this her bouncer?_ He got unsteadily to his feet.

 

The man-mountain held out his enormous hand as he drew closer. “Leo Fitz? Good to meet you! I’m Alphonso Mackenzie, Jemma’s PA, but everyone calls me Mack.”

 

“Mack. Hi,” Fitz said, noticing that his own hand had completely disappeared inside Mack’s grip. “Good to meet you too.”

 

“Jemma was wondering if you wanted to come over and wait with us while she finishes her signing.” His eyes dropped to Fitz’s chest. “Wow, look at that All Access Pass! You don’t even need an invitation!”

 

Fitz lifted the acid green laminated card that until that moment he had utterly forgotten was strung about his neck, clashing horribly with his tie. He’d have to keep his unfettered access in mind. He looked back up at Mack and grinned. “I would have waited for her to invite me anyway.”

 

“She’s had me screening her calls and messages during the signing so she didn’t miss you. She’s worried she’ll lose her chance to make plans with you once the festival really gets going.”

 

Fitz laughed incredulously at the thought that _she_ was worried about missing _him_. “I’m hardly likely to give up the chance to spend time with _Jemma Simmons_!”

 

“I figured as much,” Mack rumbled good-naturedly. “But you’d be doing her a kindness if you’d come over there with me and convince her of that yourself.”

 

“Then I shall obey,” Fitz replied, pouring the last cup of tea from what remained in his pot and adding the slightest dash of milk. “Shall we fetch her one of these on the way?”

 

Mack grinned. “Now I see why she might be inclined to like you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jemma greeted Fitz like a conquering hero when he placed the tray of tea things beside her and poured her a cup before sitting down with his own tea in the chair Mack had pulled up for him.

 

_Thank you_ she mouthed at him before drinking deeply, eyes closed. Fitz found the sigh that she released after that first sip so deeply relatable that at least some of his jitters immediately drained away.

 

She turned politely back to the fan whose book she was signing and said, “This wonderful man bringing me tea is Leo Fitz. You know, _Lit Lover_ from _The Scotsman_?”

 

The middle-aged woman grinned at the pair of them. “Is this the one you met on the tube then?” she asked. “The one who’s taking you somewhere nice?”

 

Fitz looked towards Jemma in concern, suddenly hallucinating the terrifyingly coiffed and glittering staff of _The Scotsman_ ’s gossip pages staggering towards them arms outstretched like zombies in search of fresh brains. However, there was never any need for concern. Like the consummate author she was, Jemma immediately concocted a convincing back story.

 

“This moth-eaten old thing?” she laughed loudly, leaning over to playfully elbow Fitz in the ribs as if they’d known one another for years. “Can you imagine anyone finding this one attractive? Goodness no, nothing like that. He helped launch my career is all. Nothing more to report.” She grinned and leaned closer as she snapped the woman’s book shut and slid it back across the table towards her. “I wish you could have seen the man on the tube though.” Jemma fanned herself theatrically. “Now _he_ was an absolute dish!”

 

Fitz wasn’t sure whether to be insulted by the _moth-eaten old thing_ or flattered by the _absolute dish_. Perhaps it was better to just ignore all of it and be thankful she’d held the gossip bloodhounds at bay for now.

 

He didn’t know how to talk to her at all let alone how to talk to her in front of queues of curious fans. She half turned back to him as she reached for the next of her books being slid towards her across the table and asked “How did you find the session? Was it alright?”

 

Fitz grinned, remembering his way back through the tumult of emotions Jemma Simmons had put him through today. First there was only gleeful anticipation, then the lightning bolt attraction followed hard upon by desperate impatience, then the staggering realisation dawning. It was only after that, still keyed up to eleven with all of the future promise, that he’d finally settled down to actually listen to anything she said.

 

“Jemma,” he muttered, pulling his chair a little closer so that she could just hear him, sitting as she was with her arms outstretched towards the fans to sign books but her head tilted back towards him. “I have to admit, sitting through that session after everything on the tube, and after what you said when you got up there… Well, I sort of lost all my ability to be objective. I wasn’t really listening to you the way I would have listened if you were just my all-time favourite author. All of a sudden you were my all-time favourite author and… well… you know, maybe more than that. I listened for completely different things than I would have listened for ordinarily.” He laughed. “Actually, I sort of feel a bit ripped off, come to think of it.”

 

He saw her smile grow wider and she flicked her eyes appreciatively back towards him before leaning forward to say something to the fan in front of her.

 

She stood and asked Mack for a time check and the big man nodded, then walked around the table to announce the end of the session and apologise to those who didn’t manage to get an autograph.

 

“As Jemma’s assistant it’s my job to ensure she can stay alive and upright through to the end of the festival,” he boomed to a melancholy but understanding laugh from the crowd. “Thank you so much for coming out today and Jemma sincerely hopes that if you missed her today, you might be able to catch her at one of her other events later in the program.”

 

Just like that, Mack had ushered the crowds away and Jemma and Fitz were sitting in the exhibition hall practically alone.

 

“You must be exhausted after all that,” Fitz said, looking at her with concern.

 

Jemma laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Actually, I’ve found today surprisingly exhilarating thanks to you.”

 

Fitz scoffed. “This is your first London Literature Festival, you’re here as a Man Booker Prize nominee, you’ve just had a horde of people come to get your books signed and yet it’s thanks to _me_ that that the day has been exhilarating?”

 

“My scorching crush has been exactly the distraction I needed to deal with all that other weird stuff you mentioned.”

 

Fitz shook his head, grinning. “Scorching crush, eh?”

 

Jemma grinned, shrugging prettily. “You’ve always said you loved my prose.”

 

He could only chuckle in response. He’d never been in a situation even slightly like this before. Women seemed to find him either completely benign, like a solid piece of inoffensive furniture, or mildly repulsive, like a used teabag. There had never even been flirting (that he’d noticed), let alone talk of scorching crushes.

 

“I’m starving,” she said, getting to her feet and grabbing her bag. “Where shall we eat?”

 

Fitz silently blessed Jeffery Mace. “I could probably get us a table at Kaspar’s if you like the sound of that?”

 

“Do I like the sound of Kaspar’s?” she repeated incredulously. “At the Savoy? What does one have to wear to eat there?”

 

Fitz looked her over appreciatively, taking in her pale pink dress and matching pointy flats. “You look perfect to me.”

 

Jemma beamed at him. “Ok, make the call!”


	5. Chapter 5

Perched on a tall turquoise stool at the striking centrepiece bar of one of the most exclusive restaurants in London, Jemma was vaguely aware that so much of the amazing dining experience ahead of them was going to be lost on her. What she was most keenly interested in, beyond the art deco inspired space, beyond the extravagant seafood menu, beyond the sparkling champagne and the atmospheric lighting was the man seated beside her in his well-fitted Prussian blue suit.

 

How could she tell him how much he meant to her? How could she thank him for all that he’d done? And now that he turned out to be close to her age and objectively _gorgeous_ \- what was she to do with that?

 

Fitz scratched at his chin nervously. “I was just thinking, it’s funny,” he said, “that I can quote your writing to you  _extensively_  but I don’t really know all that much about you as a person.”

 

She braced herself for the standard first date questions. Of course, it was to be expected. Even if she felt Fitz might actually know her _soul_ , he still had to glean the trivia.

 

“So in a fight to the death between Jane Eyre and Elinor Dashwood,” he began, “who would you be tempted to put a fiver on?”

 

Jemma’s surprised explosion of laughter drew the eye of a number of other patrons.

 

“I think that is the best question I’ve ever been asked.”

 

Fitz took a sip of his champagne and shook his head, grinning back at her. “I don’t care what you think about the question. It’s your answer that will tell me all I need to know.”

 

Jemma pondered a moment. “Jane’s had some action, both have seen a few things and I reckon they’re both pretty scrappy. Taking a leaf out of Bertha’s book, Jane would maybe go for a fiery brand or a burning branch whereas Elinor would be limited to a sharp quill, maybe a pair of knitting needles?” She hesitated. “I mean, I suppose I’m not allowing for the possibility of her grabbing a firearm of Colonel Brandon’s. Is she at home when Jane comes for her?”

 

“You’re leaning toward the fiver on Eyre,” Fitz nodded. “I like it.”

 

“Alright,” Jemma said. “My turn. You’re planning a bank heist. You can have three literary characters on your crew. Who do you choose?”

 

Fitz grin grew wider. He pondered for a second scratching thoughtfully at his ginger whiskers. “Obviously Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“He’s got a way with those dragons…”

 

“Exactly. Then Rodion Raskolnikov for strategy and for sheer _balls_.”

 

“But will he be able to stop himself from confessing after?”

 

“You raise a good point, Simmons… Alright, I retract Raskolnikov and replace him with ummm, Holly Golightly, for style and her noted con-person chops.”

 

“Alright, and three?”

 

Fitz grinned. “Ginny Weasley. Brilliant witch who presents as highly corruptible.”

 

“That’s a little bit Faginesque, wouldn’t you say? She _is_ a minor!”

 

“I am willing to wait to hire adult Ginny Weasley and ensure that she’s fairly remunerated.” Fitz replied defensively. “She’d be well worth it in terms of what she’d bring to the operation. Ok, now I want you to tell me the greatest book-to-film casting travesty of the twentieth and twenty-first century.”

 

Jemma snorted. “I need zero seconds to think about that. I’m still livid about it and it came out all the way back in 2002. Imagine casting Aaron Eckhart in…”

 

“A.S. Byatt’s _Possession_!” Fitz interrupted triumphantly.

 

“Exactly! What on earth were they thinking? I mean Roland? An American!? And such a toothy and jaw-y one at that? It should have been Joseph Fiennes as I’d heard rumoured.”

 

“I had this theory that they’d combined his character with…”

 

“Leonora Stern! Yes! I’d had the same thought! But who could have possibly thought it was a good idea to take the most relatable and appealing character and mix him up with the least!”

 

“And when they’d done so well casting LaMotte and Ash!”

 

“Criminal,” Jemma agreed. “And that’s one of my all-time favourite novels too.”

 

“Same,” nodded Fitz sadly. “Byatt’s a certified genius. Must make you wary of the film makers hovering around you.”

 

She scoffed. “No one’s talking to me about films. Not seriously anyway.”

 

“Not seriously to you _yet_. But everyone’s talking seriously to everyone else about getting your books made into films. I guess they need to line up a few ducks before they pitch to you.”

 

Jemma just shook her head and grinned at him.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s you I have to thank for all this, you realise.”

 

Fitz’s expression could not have been more incredulous. “What on _earth_ are you talking about, Simmons?”

 

“You’re the one who, I don’t know what the right term is… _discovered_ me, perhaps?”

 

“That is patently ludicrous.”

 

Jemma held up one finger while digging in her bag with the other hand. “I can prove it.” She produced a battered bit of newsprint in a plastic sleeve and smoothed it out in front of him.

 

“That’s the Scotsman,” Fitz observed. He looked closer. “Hey, this is one of my old columns!”

 

“Not just any column,” she replied. “That’s the column that launched my career four years ago.”

 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he retorted, turning his face away from the page she was trying to show him. “You launched your own career! I’m just a fan, Simmons! One of many, I might add, with which you’ll be forced to agree if you could cast your mind back just a few hours to this very afternoon.”

 

“Just read it, would you?” she sighed, sliding the sleeve across the bar.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how literary types would talk as I plainly ain't one but I had fun writing this anyway! Also, I share all opinions with my borrowed characters. Surprise, surprise.  
> Anyone who wants to defend that casting of Aaron Eckhart??  
> Pistols at dawn.


	6. Chapter 6

Fitz rested his chin on his fist and let his eyes drift over the crinkled paper, vaguely remembering the construction of a phrase or two and a sense of the zealous earnestness with which he wanted to share his glorious discovery with his audience.

 

_Readers of Scotland, I ask you, what is it that fills your little balloon of hope when you exchange your few scant euro for a science fiction title at your local independent bookseller instead of blowing it on a pint? Is it the prospect of more haunting pathos like that of Kazuo Ishiguro’s_ Never Let Me Go _? Is it a hope for more uncanny prophecy in the vein of Aldous Huxley’s_ Brave New World _? Is it a yen for surreal and darkly funny satire the like of which constitutes Kurt Vonnegut’s_ Slaughterhouse-Five _or the claustrophobic and convincing horror of Margaret Atwood’s_ The Handmaid’s Tale _? The emotional devastation of Cormac McCarthy’s_ The Road _? The slow-building heart-ache of Audrey Niffenegger’s_ The Time-Traveller’s Wife _?_

_Not enough spacecraft in that list for you? Not enough extraterrestrials or human experiments or portals through the cosmos?_

_Then it is my rare pleasure to unearth for you one of those authors who can write the literary sci-fi we love, in the ilk of the authors cited above, but still pack her work full of the otherworldly accoutrements of space._

_Ladies and Gentlemen, a thunderous drumroll barely begins to signify the enormity of an introduction to the remarkable Jemma Simmons. Some of you might have stumbled across_ Instant Paralysis _tucked away on a shelf in your local library circa 2012. If, Brave Reader, you had had the foresight and confidence to pick an unknown title by an unknown author then there’s no doubt that you would have gone back for the magnificent_ More Than Life Itself _that came out the following year. And once you’d done that, nothing would have stopped you from seeking out Simmons’ latest, heartbreaking title,_ The First Law of Thermodynamics _._

_She clearly excels at preparation. Her research is meticulous, her characters are fully-formed and nuanced, her dialogue is spectacular and her plotting keeps one guessing right up to the final word._

Instant Paralysis _follows the induction of a pair of wide-eye young scientists into a global spy organisation the reach of which not even the leaders themselves fully comprehend._ More Than Life Itself _is set in academia as seen through the astonished eyes of the protagonist who pours herself into discoveries that challenge the very nature of humanity itself. It’s not until_ The First Law of Thermodynamics _that Simmons begins to tackle the life-upending enormity of love and she does it better than almost anyone else I’ve read._

_This is an author who sees the world with new eyes and writes about it in fresh prose, dripping with insight. Your homework, dear reader? Get thee to the bookshop!_

_Jemma Simmons’_ Instant Paralysis _,_ More Than Life Itself _and_ The First Law of Thermodynamics _are published by SHIELD. To buy them for £13.19 each go to scotsmanbookshop.com or call 03307 333 68467._

 

Fitz looked up at her, his expression nonchalant. “Like I said, I’m a fan.”

 

“Well, you’re a fan with a rabid fan base of your own and you incited _your_ fans to read my books. And that’s how I come to be where I am today.”

 

“Well, what if I think you’re giving me too much credit?” he shot back. “One of the reasons I love my job is because it gives me a vehicle to do as a career what I’ve done since I was a kid. When I read a book and love it, my enjoyment of it isn’t fully complete until I’ve gotten someone else to read it and love it too. In my column I get paid to share the books I love with others, I daily do exactly what I did as a kid but on a larger scale. So while I hear your appreciation for the fact that I might have introduced a few more people to your titles, I’m not going to let that take anything away from the wonder of your talent and the massive achievement that is every single one of them!”

 

Jemma shrugged, patently unconvinced.

 

Fitz’s expression suddenly changed from mildly annoyed to sympathetic. “Ohhh, I think know where you're coming from. Your first London Literature Festival, you’ve just had a massive signing, you're a Man Booker nominee, everyone wants to know you and no one’s treating you like a normal person, right?”

 

“Right!” Jemma nodded. “It’s bonkers!”

 

“Why else do you think everyone in the industry spends the festival half plastered? Imposter syndrome is very real, Simmons. I promise you, you’re far from the only one here feeling like a fraud.”

 

She laughed. “Except maybe Lance. He seems pretty cocky.”

 

Fitz grinned and shook his head. “Hunter’s crying on the inside, trust me. I’ve spent enough time getting hammered with him at this very festival to know. I love him like a brother but he’s no more convinced he deserves his place in all this than any of the rest of us. That’s why, especially after the events of the 2014 Festival, we have to hold each other accountable to our two-drink limit.”

 

“I dare not ask about 2014,” said Jemma. “So it’s only two drinks a day for you?” She nodded towards his champagne. “Impressive self-control on your part to still have something in the allowance by dinner time after all the Day One booze-ups.”

 

Fitz scoffed. “That would no doubt be much better for my liver but probably not sustainable the way this industry does insecurity, adulation and alcohol. The limit is two drinks per festival location. It still adds up across the course of a day but tends to prevent outright public drunkenness and the inevitable accompanying faux pas. I surely need not tell you that imposter syndrome plus alcohol is not a good combination.”

“Of course, but it’s odd, isn’t it? Why is it that I can know _I’m_ a normal person and feel that it’s totally weird for anyone else to treat _me_ like a celebrity, and yet manage to completely forget all that in my own dealings with any other famous people? We all just want to be talked to like we’re normal humans and yet at times like this we get treated like demi-gods, even by each other.”

 

“Especially given that we’re _writers_ of all things,” Fitz agreed. “I mean, most of us sit at home all day in our pyjamas chain-smoking and playing on the internet between bashing out a page or two of a novel or a column here or there. It’s hardly glamorous…”

 

Jemma laughed. “Pyjamas? I wish.”

 

“Really? Not a pyjama writer? That’s a first.”

 

“Well, up until recently, writing has been more of a side hustle of mine. I’ve worked as a model for the last fifteen years or so and that’s been my main source of income. When I write, I’m usually on a shoot in an exotic location, wearing a full-face of make-up and impractical, restrictive and often overly revealing haute couture.”

 

Fitz shook his head. “How on earth do you write such sublime stuff surrounded by vapid, superficial fashion types?”

 

“Now, now, Fitz,” Jemma scolded. “I would have thought a cosmopolitan man of the world like yourself,” (she ignored his blathering objections) “would know that a fashion shoot is a hive of genuine creativity. Fashion designers, make-up artists, shoot-producers, photographers – they’re all artists! They’re passionate about collaboration, aesthetic, colour and beauty and they all inspire me.”

 

“Sorry, yeah, that was a bit judgemental, wasn’t it.”

 

“The written word is not the _only_ art form.”

 

“Of course. I do know that.”

 

Jemma raised one dubious eyebrow.

 

 

...


	7. Chapter 7

As if the force of her perfectly shaped brow wasn’t enough to cow Fitz into submission, he also had fuzzy images of Jemma typing while wearing swimsuits on Tahitian beaches to contend with.

 

“I think I’ll have to interview you about your writing process,” he stammered, grasping onto the first flickering thought that make any sense. “People will love it. A writer’s life that _is_ actually glamorous for a change.”

 

“What are the ethics of interviewing someone you’re dating?” Jemma asked, as if the question didn’t hold within it promise of enormous treasures yet untold.

  

Fitz’s face softened, his journalistic fervour fading into a dopey smile. “I’m at war within, Jemma.”

 

“How so?” Jemma asked, smiling back.

 

“Jaded thirty-five year old me just wants to ask why you’re so concerned about ethics. Incurably romantic twenty-five year old me wants to forget work entirely and run away to one of those exotic locations with you.”

 

“Ahh, I see. So I’m too late? Jaded thirty-five year old you isn’t interested in dating? Maybe you could harness just a glimmer of your younger self to at least let me down easy?”

 

Fitz laughed. “Oh, believe me, Jemma. I’m not going to be rejecting you. I think I’m just a little too jaded to believe this could possibly be happening.”

 

“Do you think maybe I could convince you?” she asked, sliding her hand across the bar and taking hold of his, her expression only lacking cartoonesque batting eyelashes.

 

Fitz looked up to meet her eye, proving himself unpredictably immune to her well-practiced charm. He pulled his hand out of her grasp. “Only if you can accept that your success in the literary world is attributable to you and you alone and nothing to do with me.”

 

She laughed at his determined expression. “I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything, Fitz. I was just trying to say thank you, remember?”

 

He looked back at her, unconvinced.

 

“Well, it looks like all your sympathy for my imposter syndrome has dried up,” she observed. “But thank you anyway. Whether you want to accept it or not, thank you. You loved my work from the beginning. You gave me my first mention in the press. You’ve described me as your unequivocal favourite author in absolutely everything you’ve written since. It feels like a real honour to have the unwavering faith of one of our most revered critics. You might just have to forgive me for assuming it carried greater weight.”

 

“I forgive you, then,” said Fitz, his grin returning. “But _revered_? That’s a bit strong, surely?”

 

“Ok, tolerated. How’s that? How does your jaded ego sit with the idea of you being barely tolerated?”

 

“Very comfortable, thank you. After all, I am tolerable, I suppose.”

 

Jemma elbowed him.

 

As Fitz theatrically rubbed at his ribs, they were approached by one of the gliding waitstaff who came to lead them to their table.

 

…

 

Jemma raised her glass to drain the last sparkling mouthful of champagne, took up her clutch and slid elegantly off the stool to stand beside Fitz. She felt her knuckles lightly graze against his hand and was taken aback by the force of the jolt she felt coursing through her. She willed herself not to pull her hand away but just to calmly walk beside him as they followed the waiter to their table.

 

Next thing she knew, a few steps later, _Fitz’s_ knuckles brushed against _her_ hand - the jolt again! How did one simultaneously manage to actually walk while experiencing such a rush of excitement? She wished she could be inside Fitz’s head. Was this what thirteen year olds went through? How did their little hearts handle it?

 

And as if the anticipation wasn’t strong enough, the moment when, for only the distance of a remaining eight paces across the restaurant, Fitz did actually harness all his courage and intertwine his fingers with hers, how was it then that she felt anchored to the ground by his hand alone but as if everything other part of her body were floating?

 

The waiter pulled out her chair for her and, for a second or two longer than was natural, she simply stood beside Fitz holding his hand and not wanting to let go. Such a tiny connection had seemed so monumental to achieve. Could they ever manage it again if she let go now?

 

The raised eyebrow of the waiter caused her at last to sever the connection and take her seat, watching as he sat down opposite her. Even in the more ambient candlelight of their table, away from the well-lit bar, she could see the colour high on his cheeks. Goodness, they could be teenagers perched on too-high stools at McDonalds for all the sophistication the two of them had managed to exude. And yet she couldn’t manage to feel ashamed, she was finding it all far too exhilarating.

 

For a moment they lost themselves in the menu and she was thankful for a topic other than herself to discuss. Even weighing up the pros and cons of the _Gressingham Guinea Fowl Supreme_ as opposed to the _Pan Seared North Atlantic Halibut_ or the _Westmorland Lobster Linguine_ and laughingly dismissing the _Textures of Heritage Carrot_ (which boasted Argan Oil, the same stuff Jemma was sure her hairdresser used) was highly entertaining alongside Fitz.

 

The gliding waiter reappeared seeming eager to take their order and Fitz was just indicating for her to speak first when he clearly felt his phone buzzing in his breast pocket and held up a finger to excuse himself, his expression apologetic.

 

“ _Hunter_ ,” he mouthed across the table to her.

 

Guessing Fitz might be a while on the phone, Jemma looked back at the waiter. “Perhaps you could give us another minute? I’m having a sudden crisis of confidence regarding my selection.”

 

He nodded, unamused, and melted back amongst the tables until he’d entirely dematerialised.

 

She turned back to Fitz who was still holding the phone to his ear and looking grim.

 

“Alright, mate,” he was saying. “I get it. I know. I’m gonna come and get you but, boy, do you owe me…”

 

At last he hung up, tucked his phone back in his pocket and looked at her sheepishly.

 

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

 

Fitz dropped his head into his hands. “I cannot believe I am sitting at a table at Kaspar’s with Jemma Simmons who it turns out is _not_ a mid-fifties, chain-smoking, comfortably overweight _Jammie Dodger_ addict and who has even gone so far as to mention the possibility of us dating without throwing up and THIS happens.”

 

“ _What’s_ happened?” She resolved to ask him about the mid-fifties, chain-smoking thing later.

 

“Do you remember I mentioned the 2014 festival?” he said, raising his head just out of his hands.

 

“I gather it was bad.”

 

“You have _no_ idea,” he replied. “And Hunter’s in real danger of finding himself right back there. Something’s happened at some Penguin party he’s at over at Mahiki in Mayfair.”

 

“And you need to go?”

 

Fitz looked torn. “Look, Jemma, it’s not that I’m one of those neanderthal ‘mates before dates’ kind of guys.” He stopped and looked up. “Truthfully, I’ve only really had mates before now. I suppose it’s not like I’ve ever intentionally worked out my priorities.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “But anyway, that’s not what’s happening here. Hunter has encountered his kryptonite and I’ve sworn that when that happens, he can always rely on me.”

 

Jemma looked him in the eye. “Fitz, I understand. Let’s go.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’d want to come with me?” he asked. “Make a date of it?”

 

She laughed. “You want to make a date out of saving your drunken mate from himself?”

 

“Now that you say it out loud like that I suppose it’s not a great idea, is it?”

 

“My hotel is in Mayfair,” she said. “We can at least share a cab?”

 

He grinned. “Alright, let’s do that. And Jemma…”

 

She stopped hastily gathering her things to look back at him.

 

“Can I book us a table here some other night before the end of the festival?”

 

She nodded. “I really was beginning to think about that _Textures of Heritage Carrot_.”

 

Fitz laughed and signalled to the waiter. “Oh, me too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dead-set cut and pasted those dishes from the current Kaspar’s at the Savoy A la carte menu. Anyone tried the Textures of Heritage Carrot? I’m thoroughly intrigued.
> 
> Sorry for the long delay on this fic. Since I posted the last chapter of this, I’ve published another seven or so 3.4-4K word chapters of my long-neglected Regency-lite midwife FitzSimmons fic which I am DETERMINED to finish, hopefully before Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. comes back on the 10th May. We will see! This one I will hopefully get back to sometime soon just for the pleasure of writing a tipsy-Hunter-flees-Bobbi-at-a-literature-festival-event-with-the-help-of-Fitz-and-his-dream-girl which sounds pretty enjoyable!!!

**Author's Note:**

> It’s possible I have made The Scotsman out to be a WAY more popular newspaper than it actually is. This is an AU, ok? Imagine it to be affiliated with all the global news conglomerates. Easily able to afford to send its books columnist to The Savoy. Just for fun.
> 
> Sorry, Glaswegians. Are your streets even a bit mean? They’re probably very nice…
> 
> This Author/Critic Meet Cute AU began as a drabble in my "Out of the Blue" series but I’ve ALWAYS wanted to do more with it. I stumbled back onto AO3 because I just wanted to see what wonderful things RecoveringRabbit had been creating in my long absence and when I found the delightful “Researching Love” I was inspired to really have a good go at this one and gift it to her.
> 
> Just like my “Near and Present Future (Jemma Simmons has a Celebrity Crush!)” this one has a book signing, celebrity struggles and fluff. This time I may even go so far as to think of a complication but trust me, my love for FitzSimmons is real and enduring and I will brook no opposition to them being together unless it is the sort of opposition that only serves to make their ultimate union that much sweeter for them having to fight for it. (By those terms, Canon FitzSimmons is now destined to be SO sweet that they will be positively hazardous to one’s health…)


End file.
